


If It's the Starlight (I Must Be Forgiven)

by purpjools



Series: Human Hazbin Roommates AU [10]
Category: Hazbin Hotel (Web Series)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Birthday, Exhibitionism, F/F, F/M, Flexible Gender Identity, Genderplay, Human Alastor (Hazbin Hotel), Human Angel Dust (Hazbin Hotel), Implied crossdressing, M/M, Sex Positive Alastor (Hazbin Hotel), Table Sex, breast kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-20
Updated: 2020-09-20
Packaged: 2021-03-07 22:41:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,844
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26565280
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/purpjools/pseuds/purpjools
Summary: Being a decent partner means listening, and knowing the other person enough to plan events, like a ritualistic sacrifice, a wake, or the most daunting of all: a birthday party.Also: Alastor adjusts to domestic life, and tries not to crash and burn.
Relationships: Alastor/Angel Dust (Hazbin Hotel), Minor or Background Relationship(s)
Series: Human Hazbin Roommates AU [10]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1699558
Comments: 29
Kudos: 131





	If It's the Starlight (I Must Be Forgiven)

Sunday breakfast, whenever possible, is always entertaining.

For one, it’s a misnomer.

The meal typically begins late morning, when most inhabitants of the house arise from their stupors. Alastor, having been awake since seven, works on his crossword puzzle, by turns etching and erasing various alternatives for words. Quiet graphitic scratching accompanies the mellow jazz that glides from the living room speakers, along with the occasional drip drop leaking from the coffee pot. The pervasive and alluring scent of coffee drifts through the corridor and up the stairs, whereupon it slithers under doors, luring the occupants awake with its sharp, smoky aroma. The barely noticeable glide of skin on wood joins the symphonic morning as Angel pads down the stairs, Fat Nuggets blearily in tow.

He sits down as Alastor gets up. He walks to the coffee machine, fills Angel’s mug, fixes it with the right amount of sugar and cream, and heads back to the table. He places the cup down, spinning the handle towards his sleepy partner, and kisses him on the forehead. He does the same for Fat Nuggets, replacing the coffee with his appropriate feed mixed in with a splash of milk. Husk, once lubricated with his first libation of the day, joins them at the table. And thus, it starts.

Sunday breakfast is always entertaining.

For another, it’s usually attended by the same idiots.

“You _could_ smother me with your thighs.”

“What the Jesus fuck, Al. I’m trying to fucking eat.”

“And so am I, Husker. In a sense. Quiet.”

Angel chortles into his coffee as Husk sneers in disgust.

“I sure can, babe. I got the day off. Wanna skip lunch?”

Husk screeches out a noise akin to a caterwaul. His drink sloshes over on his hand as he revs up another polemic against their flirtatious banter during mealtimes. Alastor smirks into the lip of his mug. It would be a bald-faced lie to say he didn’t enjoy riling up his old friend, so Alastor doesn’t bother hiding it.

Soon, it’s quiet but for the sounds of jazz again, and Alastor engrosses himself in his puzzle.

Hubris, he forgets, always demands a price.

“Hey, Al?”

“Yes, dear?”

He makes the stupendously moronic decision to sip his coffee at the same time Angel asks, “What would ya think if I got tits?”

Alastor sprays all over the table.

Husk leaps up, hissing.

“What the fuck! And goddamn, kid! What the hell is wrong with both of ya?” he yells, coddling his tumbler in cupped hands. He turns on his heel and speeds off, grumbling, “Take your pervert shit somewhere else” or something along those lines.

Angel wordlessly hands Alastor the towels. Coughing, he snatches them and begins wiping up the mess. He does his utmost to avoid eye contact as Angel perches on the chair across him, where Husk was sitting mere moments ago.

“Babe. Ya, er, can stop now. I think that’s as clean as it’s gonna get.”

He forcibly exhales through his nostrils, successfully stifling the whimper that tries to wrestle free from his throat, and wills himself to sit. The fight-or-flight reaction activates, and as impossible as it is, Alastor can almost feel his pupils dilating. His stress response climbs the charts as his blood pressure spikes. Flight, incidentally, is winning the round.

“Did… _implants_?” he manages, dumbly. His voice thankfully doesn’t crack, all things considered. He would thank his lucky stars, had he even any to begin with. In light of the circumstances, he most definitely did not.

Angel shucks off his shirt, further driving the point home, and cups at imaginary breasts. Alastor’s sure that it isn’t obvious, but heat creeps up his neck. He reaches up to unbutton his shirt before he realizes that it’s Sunday, and he’s clad in his old college t-shirt. He hooks a finger at the neckline instead, yanking it outwards semi-surreptitiously.

“Don’t ya think they’d match me? Pretty sure I can rock ‘em.”

A million questions zip through Alastor’s mind and he struggles to latch on to any of them.

“I’m. Yes. They would look…nice.”

A million other words and innumerable combinations in his expansive repertoire, and that’s all he manages to scrounge up. Alastor stems the increasingly attractive compulsion to turn tail and bolt out the door, as the other traitor did. His neck itches as he valiantly resists. He huffs.

He wouldn’t be at all surprised if Angel caused him to develop an allergic reaction.

Regaining his bearings or attempting to, he aims for a less laconic answer.

“What brought this on, my dear? Of course, you would look stellar, with or without them.”

He inwardly winces at the high pitch of his delivery. Angel, demon that he is, winks.

“Just thinkin’ out loud, Al. Sheesh. No need to get all weird.” He thumbs his nipples, playing idly with them. Alastor’s eyes shoot down instinctively.

His trousers shrink.

“Besides, I thought one of your exes was trans. Fake tits shouldn’t surprise ya.”

“Firstly, she was not an ex-girlfriend. Just a fling. Secondly, I met her years after her surgery. Thirdly, you’ve never expressed…”

Alastor pauses. Angel smiles beatifically. He folds his hands under his chin.

“Go ahead, Al. Finish that thought.”

Alastor’s tongue ties in a neat bow, or so it feels when snippets of their banter during sexual play swim to the forefront of his mind. He recalls Angel babbling something or other about _come on my tits, babe_ or _fuck my tits, Al_ while Alastor spilled all over his chest, but he can’t keep track of all the sordid details especially when bottomed out and buried deep inside. He sits, stock-still as his brain attempts to play catch-up with his cock. He blinks.

This goes on for a time before Angel takes pity on him.

“Babe, I swear,” he sighs. “Ya gotta listen, sometimes, ‘kay? And yeah, no. I like my body as is, but I don’t mind bein’ mistaken for a lady, and I’m cool with whatever anyone wants to call me.”

Alastor exhales, but Angel isn’t finished. “But sometimes, I wonder what it’d be like if I was born a girl. I mean, fuck. I feel goddamn sexy in makeup, dresses, heels.”

He bats his eyes. “Lingerie,” he purrs.

Angel leans forward, pinching his nipples to hardness. He lifts a hand and swipes his tongue, wetting his fingers, then slithers his hand down his chest. He arches his back as he rolls moistened digits over the pretty pink buds.

“I’d like to be your girl, Al. If you’d let me.”

Alastor’s hurdling reflexes are most impressive. The chairs topple as he fights with his zipper and bends Angel over. A litany of filthy words leaves his lips, punctuated by the obscene sounds of squelching, and scraping wood on linoleum. This time, he pays attention to exactly what Angel moans out.

“That’s it, princess,” he coos as Angel comes all over the table. “Good girl.”

They christen (or desecrate) the dining table masterfully.

* * *

“I swear, you exist just to give me heart attacks.”

He rests his forehead in the upper curve of Angel’s spine, between his shoulder blades.

Angel laughs. “That’s what my daddy always said. Being that you’re my daddy now, I’d say it’s pretty much in character, don’t ya think?”

Husk re-enters the kitchen. Upon spying them _in flagrante delicto_ , he swears and bolts to the liquor cabinet.

“Get a fucking room, assholes!”

“Last I checked, this _is_ one.”

Husk exits the kitchen, post-haste.

Either way, Alastor hitches up his trousers reluctantly, still buried inside Angel. He rocks into him, waiting to soften and unwilling to part from his partner’s warmth, despite the bemoaning and whining streaming from his mouth. He shushes Angel deliberately. He’s bitten for his trouble.

Licking the coppery tang from his fingers, he poses the ultimate question.

“Now. What do you want for your birthday?”

“Well, I already got you, so.”

“Cheeky. Fine. What do you want to _do_ for your birthday, and don’t say ‘me’, because that’s already a given.”

And like a snap of fingers, Angel says what no one with a Type A personality who asks that specific question wants to hear:

“Surprise me.”

* * *

Alastor apparently enlists the help of simpletons.

“What do normal people like to do on their birthdays? Scratch that. What does Angel want to do?” Niffty opens her mouth. “And don’t say me because that’s a tiresome wisecrack, and I’m not in the mood.” Niffty closes her mouth.

“So why the fuck are ya asking us? Ask _him_! He sleeps with _you_! I’m sure he can answer bouncing up and down your dick if ya asked.”

“‘Surprise me’, he said.” Alastor spits out the offending word, puckering his lips as if he’s tasted something bitterly sour. For all he knows, he has.

The bitterness of uncertainty, he thinks with no shortage of it.

“I’m not clairvoyant,” he continues, draping himself over the chair. “And I do _not_ have a penchant for the dramatic,” he sniffs, theatrically.

“Er. Who said that?”

He perks up. “Oh. Rosie. Incessantly.”

“You’re apparently not a listener, too.”

“Vags, I don’t think that’s helping.”

“We don’t need to help! _He_ needs to stop shirking his boyfriend duties and take notes.” With a swipe, she lights up her phone. She shoves it in his face. “Case in point.”

Alastor squints at the screen. “ _February 7: Baphomet Boulevard. Combat boots, size 6. Black, metal detail. March 14: Metallic markers at Phenex’s Pen-itentiary. Violet, silver, and bronze pack. May 4_ …what exactly am I reading?”

Vaggie’s interrupted by an enthusiastic embrace, followed by a squeal. Charlie smashes her cheek on Vaggie’s, grinning from ear to ear.

“Babe! You take notes?”

Vaggie blushes. “I write everything down,” she admits. “I want to get you exactly what you want.” She cups Charlie’s face, who leans in.

“I have everything I want,” she says, before kissing her.

Husk gags, Niffty coos, and Alastor huffs.

“I don’t see how that exactly helps me. Unless you’re speaking about hindsight, which is similarly unhelpful.”

Vaggie briefly disengages. “It’s for the future, asshole. If you’re lucky enough to have one after this.”

“Oh!” Niffty squeals, hopping and clapping. Everyone diverts their attention to her diminutive, enthusiastically bobbing frame.

“You could jump naked out of a cake!”

Husk recoils, cursing. Alastor sends him a sharp glare. Charlie and Vaggie, to his horror, seem to consider the wretched idea.

“Well,” Charlie begins, poking her fingers together.

“I am _not_ jumping out of a cake, sans clothes, or otherwise.” He folds his arms, weighing the option against decency, sensibility, and practicality. Not to mention, good sense.

“It’s not that I don’t possess the agility. I’m very limber. I once leaped from an air vent, as cliché as it may be, but I don’t recommend it. Landing in an upright position after you’ve felled your target makes for an impressive move, but it does a ghastly number on leather shoes. Scuff marks are one nuisance, but bodily fluids are another beast entirely. Why, my cobbler had a conniption!”

He smiles, seeking commiseration. Niffty grants it, nodding her head sagely. The rest of them gape at him, silently parting and closing their jaws like brainless goldfish.

Vaggie breaks formation first. “Anyone tell you you’re psychotic?”

Alastor hums. “You’re not the first, no.” He audibly cracks his neck to everyone’s chagrin. “Anyway, that’s Angel’s forte, not mine. My attempts at a striptease would be abysmal.”

Charlie taps her cheek. “How about the classic dinner and a movie? Or the good ‘ole afternoon picnic? Anything’s better than what Angel usually does. He doesn’t celebrate his birthday. He spent the last few working at the club, and we usually chip in for a small cake and some presents at the end of his shift.” She smiles, mostly to Vaggie who returns it. “He always liked that.”

Alastor observes their deceptively casual touches. While unremarkable from afar, the motions translate to a clandestine language privy only to a party of two. A caress on the wrist, a lingering movement along the hilly terrain of knuckles. All those discreet gestures, speaking silently of longing, affection, devotion.

He wonders if, to the perceptive observer, he and Angel are the same way.

Fingers snap in his face. He blinks.

“Yeah, he’s alive,” Husk grumbles. “Not sure I’ll be in a moment.”

Alastor clears his throat, not disagreeing with the sentiment. “So, what’s the consensus?”

“Afternoon delight, then dinner. Don’t let the dick go to work.”

“I’ll talk to Vox. He’ll give Angel the night off.”

“If not, then Dad sure will.”

“Use the tranquilizing power of your peen!”

Husk glares at Niffty. “Babe, can you not? I just exorcised the assholes outta my head last night. Haven’t been able to eat at the damn thing since,” he confesses, shuddering.

“We cleaned the table after we finished with it,” Alastor insists.

“With _what_?”

Vaggie gawks at the men, horrified. “This table?” she squeaks before abruptly shoving off and leaping up.

Charlie hides her discomfort marginally better. “Riiiight,” she says, scooting away.

“With disinfecting wipes, you heathen,” Alastor lies, supressing the memory of Angel obediently licking the table while he murmured praises.

They all share unconvinced expressions. Dogged, he readdresses the issue at hand.

“So. Any suggestions on where to take him?”

A group huddle and cementation of the finishing touches later, he trudges on with their half-baked plan.

He flips on the switch in the kitchen, before cataloging the ingredients available for next week’s festivities. Maybe Niffty does have a point, he muses, mentally ticking off the boxes on his grocery list as he surveys the kitchen. When in doubt, he could always subdue Angel with a solid ravishing.

Why, it’s practically his go-to, now.

* * *

Angel despises his birthday.

Since being unceremoniously forced out the door at sixteen, he’s gotten used to lackluster birthdays, and the half-hearted well-wishes that come hand in hand with it. Molly still calls him every year, but he surmises it’s because she shares the same one, and therefore can’t miss it. Or so they joke, whenever Angel can summon the fortitude.

Valentino hosted extravagant events for his birthdays, and while Angel admits those were fun, what they excelled in paled in comparison to what they lacked. All the sex, drugs, and alcohol in the world couldn’t erase the immense loneliness he felt at those enormously empty parties. The parties didn’t address the turmoil roiling beneath the surface. They slapped a bandage over the festering wound and called it a night.

Lipstick on a pig.

On cue, Fat Nuggets squeals as his second favorite person walks in. He shrugs off his jacket, widely grinning, and makes his way to their bed.

Alastor smiles against his lips.

“Happy birthday, darling.”

Angel tries to answer, but it’s captured and muffled in Alastor’s inviting mouth. They enjoy each other for a few minutes, savoring the other’s taste on their lips, their tongues. Alastor chases away the aches and disquietudes from any clinging strands of doubt. He tastes like electric rain during a storm.

He tastes like cleansing.

“Get dressed, dear. Time’s a-wasting.”

Angel yawns, stretching stiff arms over Fat Nuggets and his unrelenting affection. “For what, babe?”

Alastor pinches his cheek. Just this once, he leans into the touch.

“Celebration, of course!”

* * *

They’re the first ones to arrive at the shelter.

Angel practically skips to the cat house, where Alastor insisted on going first, cooing at all the animals along the way. They carefully inch sideways through the first of the two doors as a precaution in the case of absconding cats. A friendly calico immediately winds itself around Alastor’s ankles, and a grey tabby butts its head into Angel’s waiting palm. Alastor picks up the calico, murmuring to it as a rotund one-eyed monster lets out a crabby yowl from the corner.

He’s running his knuckles down the cat’s spine when he says, “This one isn’t terrible.”

Angel chuckles. “High praise, comin’ from you.”

“Very friendly. A veritable shoo-in for adoption.”

Angel’s chest tightens in that queer but familiar way again. The tabby cat, six-sensing a disturbance, purrs louder and ramps up the affection. Angel’s smile remains soft as it diminishes. There’s a whisker touch to his cheek, and he looks up. Alastor watches him with concern. He strokes at his jaw as gingerly as he did the cat.

“What’s wrong, dear?”

Angel sighs, swinging his legs on the bench. “It’s just…” He trails off. It’s a stupid habit, he thinks. But Angel’s been ridiculed for his earnest heart before. Most of him knows that Alastor wouldn’t judge him. But as they say: old habits die hard.

Alastor caresses his cheek with his thumb. “Cat got your tongue?” he says, eyes brimming with amusement.

Angel snorts, biting back his smile. Time to break old habits, he decides.

“I think we should consider adoptin’ a pet who might not be anyone’s first choice,” he says. Like me, he doesn’t say. “Ya know, someone with their back against the wall.”

“Ah. Odds stacked against? I’m sure we can ask around. There’s no shortage of that in shelters…and orphanages, for that matter!”

Angel is somewhat sure that Alastor means well, but he still slits his eyes at the tasteless joke. His boyfriend promptly shuts the hell up and approaches the nearest assistant. She leads them to a back area, where the air is choked with the barks and whines of caged animals. Angel shouts over the din.

“Any on death row?”

“Several,” the lady admits loudly. She averts her eyes for a second before matching his gaze, dead-on. “We try to find them homes as best as possible, but some slip through the cracks. And we get so many, day in and day out.” Her voice cracks at the last part. Angel notes the tired shadows lingering around crow’s feet, and quashes any judgment he might have.

She gestures to the rows of fences. “Here they are. Unadoptable for many reasons. Some of them sensible, most not.”

Angel meanders down the lane, reading each personalized placard as carefully as possible. He hesitates after a while, so Alastor seamlessly picks up where he leaves off. Some of the more enthusiastic dogs jump up on the chain-link barrier, causing Alastor to skitter backward, but Angel grips his hand throughout, which seems to have a calming effect.

They eventually reach: “Shep,” Alastor reads. “Nine years old, owner surrender. ‘Mixed breed’, as described by the previous owner, but with distinctive basset characteristics. Gentle and sweet demeanor despite age. Good with cats. Some medical complications, but not dire. Left hind leg limp.”

Spurred by Alastor’s sonorous voice or their combined scents, the dog gaily ambles towards them. At Alastor’s reluctant nod and Angel’s fervent one, the assistant opens the door and leashes the dog. She leads them to a private pen. Alastor takes a seat on the bench, and the dog, Shep, immediately waddles over and lays his head on his lap. Angel pretends not to notice Alastor’s automatic flinch or the begrudging acceptance in the minutes that follow. Angel sits on the ground next to Alastor’s legs and begins petting the dog. Shep turns at the touches, then licks his face. Angel trills with delight.

“Does it react favorably to other animals besides cats?”

The assistant tilts her head. “Good question. What sorts?”

“Livestock.”

“A _piglet_ ,” Angel corrects, narrowing his eyes. Alastor rolls his.

“Don’t remind me, I haven’t eaten pork in months. Husker is threatening to riot over the ‘Great Bacon Depression’.”

“No shit! What would Nuggie think if he witnessed ya eatin’ his relatives?”

“ _Good riddance_?” He turns to the assistant, trying to lure her to his side with charm. “Bacon is one thing, but you can’t deprive a Southern boy of pickled pig’s feet.”

It fails stupendously. Wrong audience.

“Pigs are intelligent creatures. We give them way less credit than they deserve,” she scolds. Angel smirks, scratching behind Shep’s smooth ears. Dust billows up as his tail thumps the ground. When Alastor begins stroking his head and swiping his thumb along the snow-tinged brows, Angel knows he’s lost.

They both are.

As expected, Angel’s bleeding heart wins out. They submit an application, agreeing to cover all adoption and medical expenses required. It amounts to a hefty bill, and Angel insists on paying for all of it. Alastor swiftly objects.

“What good is the money I make when it ain’t for somethin’ worthwhile?” he complains. Alastor quiets him with his mouth.

“And what good is mine when my contribution isn’t counted? I want this just as much as you do, Angel. Your income may be more substantial, but this is a partnership, my dear. And, this being your birthday, I should do the honors. Consider this your present.”

Angel’s heart swells at the word. Partnership, he silently agrees, linking their arms together. He kisses Alastor’s cheek, right above the dimple. Alastor leans in, tilting his head to do the same to his nose.

“Although, the name is dreadful. We should consider renaming it.”

“ _Him_ , and agreed. I slept with a couple of Sheps, and they were all fuckin’ batshit. Same closet, I guess.”

“You’re telling me, dear. So did I. Just the one, though.”

Angel pulls away in disbelief. “No shit?”

“None at all. Football player, high school,” he says, filling in the blanks. “ _Wide receiver_ ,” he quips, waggling his eyebrows. His smile fades at Angel’s unamused glare.

“Closeted, which goes without saying. Louisiana is still considered Bible Belt territory. His father, if I recall correctly, was a pastor. The parents accepted me”-Angel nods, catching his drift-“but that courtesy, unfortunately, did not extend to the bedroom. All experimental, of course. Nothing concrete.”

On _your_ end, Angel thinks. “So what did Mimi think of this?”

“Mimzy, and she supported it. Quite an extraordinary girl. Open-minded, to boot.” Alastor shrugs. “In any case, he’s married now. Still in the closet, and persistent as always.”

“Wait. Always?”

“He emails me from time to time.”

Angel sputters, jealousy chewing a hole in his stomach. “Ya fuckin’ told him ya had a boyfriend, right?”

Alastor scoffs. “Of course I did. Doesn’t deter most. You, out of all people, should understand.”

Angel harkens back to all his regulars that wore wedding rings or pocketed them before private shows. He grudgingly agrees, but not before wrapping his arms tightly around his boyfriend. They walk out and are greeted by a late afternoon drizzle. They rush to the car, and Angel props his feet on the dashboard as soon as he’s seated. He whips out his phone and begins to frantically search for alternate names.

“Fuck that name. Let’s pick a new one.” Angel mutters as Alastor starts the ignition. “What kinda name is Shep, anyways?”

“A Southern one,” Alastor drawls, earning a vicious tug to his earlobe.

He smiles as he reverses out of the parking spot.

* * *

Angel trusts his boyfriend, he does, but the last time he was cajoled into wearing a blindfold he was strapped to a bed.

It seems to be a recurring theme with Alastor.

“Two steps to your right,” he directs. Angel obediently shuffles, toes grazing what feels like the rug in front of the back door. He jumps at the sensation, nearly toppling Alastor in the process.

“We’re almost there, but it’ll take longer if you insist on mauling me every five steps.”

“Fuck you, babe. I ain’t used to walkin’ while blindfolded. I’m usually horizontal.”

“You could do with a bit of trust,” Alastor’s voice grumbles in his left ear. “I’m not that unreliable.”

“Vox told me ya let him eat shit during a trust fall exercise.”

A click. Alastor’s hands guide his elbows as the shushing noise of a sliding door alerts his eardrums. He steps out into the chill air, the soles of his feet finding purchase on concrete before sinking into softer soil, blades of grass tickling his feet.

“Lucifer accepts that my hand slipped,” sniffs the darkness in the back of him. Fingers lightly skirt the knot at the back of his skull, gingerly working around the mess of hair and fabric. A flutter, gossamer, touches his nape. Angel sighs as Alastor’s lips brush his skin.

Finally, he undoes the blindfold.

“Here you are, sweetheart.”

Alastor has the audacity to look nervous when in actuality, it should be the furthest expression. The house lights are shut off, and:

The backyard is awash with candles.

It is spectacular, a floating sea of dancing flames, reminiscent of lighted lanterns released into a pitch ocean. Swaying, as to some quiet but profound song, the illuminations cast an otherworldly glow, only rivaled by their celestial counterparts and the sea, dotted with flickering lights; the shadows and phosphorescence swaying in reverent rhythm.

A small fire burns at the center of it all; the pit finally utilized for this occasion. The candles hanging from the three trees in their backyard swing with the barest hint of breeze.

Amongst the lights, his friends beam at him from their respective positions: Charlie and Vaggie as they finish setting the table, Niffty as she loosens the knob on the propane tank, and Cherri as she walks over to the makeshift bar with bottles in her arms. Pentious and Twenty-three are engaged in a heated discussion near the fire pit with Blitzo and Moxxie, while Husk and Loona roll their eyes and clink their glasses together. Millie fiddles with the music, while Crymini and Velvet attempt to dissuade her after noticing Alastor’s eye twitching at the song selection. Vox and Rosie send them what could only be described as warm sneers. Vox adds an extra inflammatory gesture.

In turn, Alastor bares his teeth, which is entirely expected and warranted, but Angel cannot bring himself to rein him in. His heart constricts, even as it balloons beyond normal capacity. He squeezes Alastor’s hand, perhaps too tightly, but he can’t help it. The slow massage of Alastor’s fingers at the base of his spine is the only thing keeping him grounded.

Otherwise, he’d float away.

Alastor leads him to the table, where the guests are taking their seats. He exchanges a barbed snipe with Vox and a brief pleasantry to Rosie as he pulls out Angel’s chair at the head of the table. Alastor seats himself to his right. He obnoxiously taps his glass with a fork.

As the guests quieten down, he declares, “Happy birthday, darling!” before leaning in for a kiss.

Angel is sure that this, _this_ is the moment when his heart bursts.

The rest of the table repeats the sentiment in chorus.

“Here’s to the birthday boy!” Cherri yells at the top of her lungs.

“Lady, quiet the hell down, we live in a goddamn neighborhood,” Husk hisses, glaring as Charlie loudly echoes the sentiment. She sheepishly shields her grin, but Alastor waves it off from his place at Angel’s side.

“I’m sure the neighbors can survive one boisterous night,” he drawls, lifting his drink in toast. He addresses Cherri, “Would you like to do the honors?”

“Fuck you, _you’re_ the boyfriend, sugar. Don’t shovel your responsibilities on me.”

The crowd laughs. From the corner of his eye, he spots Rosie pinching Vox on the bicep. Spirits sufficiently bolstered, Alastor begins, the familiar confidence of an orator rippling around him like a well-worn coat.

He clears his throat.

“To Angel, my heart and the biggest pain to walk this earth.” He pauses at the guffaws and Angel’s indignant huff.

“To the kindest soul I’ve had the fortune of knowing, and the most understanding. It goes without saying that he is the best person in my world, and there is nothing whatsoever that I would even dream of trading him for. He is, without a doubt, my life. If only I were less impassioned to give a more objective speech.” More laughs. “But all of this is in deference to Angel, who single-handedly remains the most exceptional person I’ve had the pleasure of being intimately acquainted with. Many happy returns, my darling. And may the world forever be at your grace. Or mercy.”

Familiar prickles gather at the corners of Angel’s eyes. At this point, it’s overstimulation. Thankfully, his boyfriend picks up on his discomfort and grabs his hand, running soothing circles over tense muscles.

He tilts his head back in an attempt to curb the overwhelming sensations.

When Angel stares up at the canopy, everything is dappled; twinkling. Stars encapsulated by glass and strung up lovingly in imperfect patterns. The tiny flames exist as warmth ensconced. Angel closes his eyes.

He traps this feeling, this incomparable glow, and bottles it up inside for safe-keeping. As all precious things must be kept.

Alastor’s hand is warm in his.

He whispers to Angel the shorthand version of his speech, which consists of three words, and that is more than enough.

* * *

The cake is brought out, the song is sung, and the candles are extinguished.

Charlie and Alastor sing well throughout the night, serenading Angel at intervals. Niffty unveils a stash of illegal fireworks from god-knows-where. Cherri cackles, lighting each one. As they brighten the sky with artificial meteor showers, Millie and Moxxie wish him a happy birthday before heading out. Unsurprisingly, Blitzo and Loona follow suit, kissing him twice on the cheeks. Crymini packs them all doggie bags, staying behind with Vaggie, Velvet, and interestingly enough, Vox, to clean up. Rosie and Husk delegate from the side-lines; Rosie, having impressively matched Husk drink for drink without stumbling, and Husk, almost faceplanting into the lawn.

When everything is sufficiently tidied up and packed away, the guests murmur their goodbyes and many happy returns until it’s just the four of them left. Husk and Niffty retire to the bedroom after an entertaining display of Niffty’s sharp teeth sinking into Husk’s arm after he paws her inappropriately one too many times.

Angel figures it’s a kink thing, and loudly states so. Alastor, either refusing to understand or uncomprehending his friends’ sex habits, guides Angel upstairs by the elbow. They reach their closed bedroom door. Alastor’s hand slips twice on the doorknob.

When he finally manages to open the door, Angel gasps.

Their bedroom is a replica of the backyard, in a smaller but no less significant scale. In lieu of candles: stringed Christmas lights. They drape across every possible surface, from Angel’s desk to their headboard, along the rumbling air conditioner to the window, and scattered on the mirrors and other surfaces throughout.

It’s space, but brighter. Earth, but lighter.

Angel says nothing for an eternity, or so it seems. The lump in Alastor’s throat is the least of his worries. The butterflies in his stomach transform into swooping bats.

“Al, it’s-”

“Not what you expected! It was supposed to be candles,” he blurts out, stupidly. And because he can’t be trusted in these peculiar situations, he adds, “But the fire department may have been called at least once due to the smoke alarms. On the bright side, Husker’s eyebrow should fully grow back within the month!”

He mentally kicks himself.

This is not at all what he planned for.

“I apologize if it doesn’t live up to your expectations,” he admits. He’s fraught with nerves, which is vastly out of character for him. Alastor can’t remember the last time he felt this incompetent, this under-confident; perhaps last when he was a gangly teenager with clothes too worn and shoes too tight. He swallows around the knot lodged in his throat.

“I took the liberty of researching your past birthdays”-Angel bristles visibly-“and while the others were incomparable, I thought you might find this one…amusing, nevertheless.” He resists twiddling his thumbs and directs his ire at the whole situation inward.

This is nothing compared to the grandiose parties that the persistent pest, Valentino, lavished on his boyfriend during their courtship. Alastor was never drowning in beaucoup bucks like Angel’s ex-paramour, and although he’s doing well for himself nowadays, the caked dirt of poverty never really rubs out.

Today was just shy of an ordinary day; a trip to the pound and an intimate get-together in their backyard. It means hardly anything significant, and this silly gesture even less. Angel deserves the world, and he can only give him a handful of sand.

Alastor is not accustomed to failure.

And the last thing he wants is to be a disappointment.

* * *

Angel despised birthdays.

They were usually meaningless and frivolous things, filled with sycophants and drugs.

Then Alastor came along and turned everything on its head.

Now, he stands, rocking nervously before Angel. His hands twitch as his insecurity sorts out what to do regarding them, settling somewhere between patting down the non-existent lint on his shirt and fiddling with his tie.

Alastor, who thinks that he’s done everything conceivably wrong.

Angel remembers the pretentious birthday parties his father and his associates threw him and Molly. How miserable his mother looked, surrounded by strangers and bottom-feeders keen on brown-nosing their way to the top. Angel recalls the Dionysian galas that Valentino hosted: all style, no substance. Those events never truly belonged to him. Birthdays only served their purpose, and were only ever an excuse to guarantee the planner the upper hand in some nefarious plot or other. Like all things in life, it was never about him.

But this.

This is different.

Something unfurls inside his chest, in slow motion. The realization of exactly why he hated his birthday dawns on him. It sounds silly at first, the idea of loneliness, on what’s meant to be a happy occasion, but then again, he’s gone through entire relationships feeling very much alone.

With the glaring exception of one.

“It was most likely a terrible fiasco, but it was not without good intentions…yes, yes, road to hell and all that-”

Angel silences him with a finger to his lips. His eyes crinkle with mirth.

“I loved it.”

Alastor double-takes, a dubious look crossing his face. “What?”

“Everything. All of it.”

And because Angel isn’t much for words-that’s Alastor’s domain-he pulls him down to their bed and shows him _exactly_ how much.

* * *

Later, they stare up at the twinkling bulbs dripping from the ceiling as their breathing evens out. Angel slots his shoulder in the space between Alastor’s armpit and the sheets. He pillows his head on his chest, right above his heart. The steady beat quiets his mind.

“Did ya mean all that,” Angel breathes before he succumbs to sleep. “What ya said, outside?”

Only in the dark, framed by hanging lights, does Alastor spread his cards down, soul laid bare. Angel kisses the inside of his wrist, where Alastor’s pulse flutters in staccato rhythm with his heart.

“Yes,” he says, a quiet admission. He laces their fingers together.

“Unequivocally.”

Muzzy with sleep, Angel smiles. His lids droop, so he misses Alastor removing his glasses and setting them down, before doing the same.

“Happy birthday, Anthony.” Lips brush his crown. Angel bunts up into the warmth, fitting snugly and perfectly against his side.

It truly was, wasn’t it.

**Author's Note:**

> 1\. Title is from Richard Myhill's "You Must Be an Angel".
> 
> 2\. A continuation of the series, planned as of now. Piecemeal will still be updated with odd and ends that don't overload the overall linear storyline. (Surprisingly, there is one)


End file.
